A Re-Beginning
by followyourdreams33
Summary: Wendy believes she's lost her chance-Peter's moved on without her. But when he suddenly arrives at the window, will she dare start her life anew?
1. The Teenage Darlings

Peter Pan.

The name itself ushers adventure—the clash of rusted swords, the salty wind, the illuminating glow of pixie dust. The name prompts a longing to battle pirates, soar the skies, and—most of all—to live whilst never aging a day. Most everyone has forgotten, ridiculing the name as merely a figment of the imagination, a childhood dream. That is, everyone but the Darling children.

…Or rather the Darling teenagers. Wendy had since flourished into an alluring young woman of sixteen. Her auburn ringlets extended just above her lower back, her blue eyes glimmered—and if possible, her storytelling grew even more passionate. Yet her audience diminished; children at school dismissed her as a hopeful loon. Only Michael and John still regarded her legends as truth. Wendy could tell, however, it wouldn't be long before the murmurs of reality whisked them away. They were _men_ now, not children, and respectable gentlemen have no time for childhood rubbish. John, edging on fifteen, grew increasingly doubtful of her stories, turning towards science and math instead. His spectacles framed an upturned nose, and his brown hair spread flat, peeking around tanned ears. Calculus and physics textbooks typically were seen beneath his muscular figure. Once, during a tale of Tinkerbell's adventures, he questioned Wendy, starting "Why, fairies don't-", before Michael abruptly swiped at him.

Michael, a shy boy of twelve, still believed; the innocence of his youth had just begun to fade. Golden locks shone above chocolate brown eyes, and his high cheekbones showcased a delicate tracing of freckles—it was his creativity that rejuvenated him, illuminated his handsome spirit. And although he was dreadfully skinny, he could probably outrun Pan himself—but he started to feel he would never find out.

The Darlings severely hoped Peter Pan would return. Every night, even in the winter, they left the window wide open, peeking from beneath the crisp sheets with wide eyes, wishing to see his shadow upon the nursery floor. But he never came. Not once. Wendy still waited, anticipating his arrival, clinging desperately to slipping faith. "He will come tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow," she said the day after.

After leaving Neverland, only a day passed before she realized her mistake. Mr. Darling insisted, upon their return, that Wendy scope out a suitor. Man after man approached her doorstep, entreating her with lavish gifts and promises. But Wendy distinguished their fictitious smiles and excessive manners—behind their glazed eyes existed a passionate burning, an evil desire to possess her. One moment of privacy, and her suitors might lap up the opportunity, kissing her feverishly with sweaty tongues. She never gave them the chance; every suitor was turned down. She wanted Peter. With Peter she felt pure, innocent, a pitter-patter from the deepest corners of her heart. With Peter…she felt whole.

And so, on a blistery August night, London dipped into a placid repose. But one girl, a darling girl, sat upon the windowsill, eyes scanning the starry sky—particularly the second star from the right.


	2. Growing-Up: Wendy's Regret

"Wendy!" Mr. Darling roared. "Come downstairs immediately!"

Wendy stirred, breathing lightly, and opened her eyes. She sat in peaceful reflection for a moment, not wanting to leave the windowsill. Then she remembered her latest dream; a small smile spread on her face, complementing her blazing cerulean eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" John asked, as his sister gracefully waltzed around the nursery.

"I had a wonderful dream…" she sighed.

"Of..?"

"Why, of Peter! He took me away to Neverland, underneath the midnight sky…we danced amongst the clouds…"

"Wendy, that's ridiculous. You can't 'dance amongst the clouds,'" he mocked, in a high falsetto. "But your head's in the clouds! Stop hoping, he's not coming."

"Oh, but he—"

"He's not coming! Not tomorrow, not next week, not EVER!" John scoffed, before slamming the door.

Wendy stopped dancing, pausing to think about John's words. Her fierce, unyielding smile crumpled, and tears clouded her vision.

"I never should have left," she whispered, "and now I've missed my chance. I'm a fool—a worthless, optimistic fool." And tears rolled down the plains of her cheeks, salty on her tongue.

"WENDY! I thought I told you to come down here!"

Ten minutes later, Wendy obediently tiptoed to the parlor, her hair elegantly swept back in intricate braids. She wore an emerald-velvet dress draped loosely around her shoulders, and a white bow fit snugly around her hips.

"You wanted to see me, father?" she inquired.

Mr. Darling was a rather bulky man, his belly hanging over the beltline. He had a graying, curly mustache that hung just above his upper lip. Defensive, hazel eyes haunted the victim of his anger, and he often rocked back and forth on his toes—a bad habit from childhood days.

"Why…well yes," he stammered, stunned at his daughter's beauty. "A new suitor, William M. Buxley, beseeches your presence at tea this afternoon. One o'clock, Lindburger Tower. I said you will attend."

"Very well. Might I wear this dress?"

"Yes, yes. You look very…mature. Have you decided to grow up after all?"

"I have. It's high time I abandon such foolish delusions. If William courts me, I shall accept." Wendy inhaled tightly before adding, "…his proposal, that is."

"Marvelous," her father replied, obviously astonished at her sophistication. "One o'clock, and not a minute later."

At twelve fifty-seven, Wendy entered the wide glass-paned doors of Lindburger Tower.

"May I take your coat, ma'am?" a servant asked, offering a gloved hand.

"Oh, certainly. Thank you," she stuttered, distracted by the lavish décor surrounding her. Every aspect of the room was gold: the curtains, the walls, even the tiling. An exquisite glass chandelier hung elegantly, hundreds of twinkling lights illuminating the tea-room.

"Expecting anyone, ma'am?" the servant persisted, gently folding Wendy's dull charcoal coat under his arm.

"Oh, yes. A…William Buxley, I believe?"

He stiffened. "Of course, right this way," he complied, ushering her to a nearby table.

From first glance, Wendy already loathed the man. He was surprisingly short, and beady eyes protruded from his pinched face. A white suit looked absolutely absurd against his pale complexion. Overall, she imagined a rat—a scraggly, brooding, infectious rat.

"Why hello, Wendy Darling," he grimaced, over-articulating every syllable with crooked yellow teeth. "How pleasant of you to stop by."

"How nice to finally meet you," she assured, disguising the contempt in her voice.

"Yes, yes I know. Have a seat. So…how old are you Miss Darling?"

"_How rude of him to ask a lady her age!"_ thought Wendy. _"And on the first date, too!" _But she grinned stupidly anyway. "I'll turn seventeen come October."

"Seventeen, eh? The prime of life, a final departure from childhood, an introduction into civilization! Well, I'd rather not disclose my age, but let's just say my youth bid me goodnight a long time ago…"

"_I can tell,"_ Wendy envisioned, but she said nothing. The air staled between them.

"Anyways," the elder gentleman pressed, "a girl like yourself needs a man to depend on. I've accumulated a bit of wealth in my years and…I need a woman to share it with. Your father impressed me as a reasonable man and…" he paused, wiping a water-stain from his saucer, "And I think you'd make a lovely wife: a lovely, beautiful, _subservient_ wife."

Wendy's insides seized while her heart pounded. His wife? But he was so old and conceited, not to mention revolting. She needed to lie down.

"May I…may I have a day to think about this? I'm not sure how my mother will reciprocate such impetuous news," she fabricated, nervously toying with her napkin.

"Sure. One day, Miss Darling. I haven't much time to wait. I shall drop by in the morning, expecting a definite decision."

Wendy stood, feeling dizzy. She thanked him, politely rushing to the entrance, but not before hearing William once more.

"A definite answer, Wendy. Tomorrow morning."

She shivered and pushed the door open, walking into the bright sunlight.


	3. A Farewell

An hour later, Wendy still felt confused and indecisive. She ran up the rickety stairs, knowing just who to talk to, and knocked on her parents' bedroom door.

"Come in," a weak voice said.

Wendy gently opened the door, a thin creak groaning from the hinges. The curtains were drawn, and only a thin ray of light streamed through the window. Mrs. Darling lay coolly on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. "How are you, my dear?" she croaked, her words muffled.

"Just fine, mother," Wendy replied. "Is there anything I can do?" She always tried to make her mother as comfortable as possible, especially ever since…

"Yes. Do open the windows; the air is stifling in here."

Her daughter complied, tearing open the curtains and cracking the windows. The outside world deeply contradicted the dull bedroom. Birds chirped in London, children played, husbands and wives politely paraded by, pastel-colored parasols in hand. Mrs. Darling's pale, sunk-in white face glanced at this world, distanced but still alert. Her fragile arms laid limply at her sides, the rest of her covered under scratchy blankets. Yet her blue eyes twinkled; they were the only remaining flicker of life. Everywhere else she slowly rotted, a painstaking reminder of swiftly approaching death.

"Thank you Wendy," she said. "They're always closing the curtains on me—as if I'd want to spend my last months in the dark."

"Listen mother. I suppose father told you of Mr. Buxley?" Wendy asked, gingerly sitting on her bedside.

"Yes, indeed he has. And how was he?"

"Well…" Wendy mustered for words, then dropped politeness altogether. "He's positively awful, mother. He's rude and old and…I refuse to stand in the shadows of a man!" She exhaled deeply, relived to admit what she'd never even admitted to herself.

Mrs. Darling smiled, pleased-maybe even proud-of her daughter.

"Dear, let me tell you a story," she started, closing her eyes. "When I was a little girl, a long, long time ago, my father—your grandfather—insisted upon my marriage. He dragged me to every party, tea, and social gathering you could think of. And one night, at the Winter Ball, it was just the same. I danced with boresome, drooling men—men that were hollow. I especially remember dancing with a…" She paused, trying to remember his name, then frowned. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Regardless of name, he kept asking me questions, questions I had no desire to answer, about my talents, age, capabilities, schoolings…but never about my hopes and dreams—never about what _**I **_wanted to do in my life. And being as headstrong and stubborn as you, this angered me. Why must I give up my freedom? I had dreams of adventure, traveling the world…" she reminisced, reliving forgotten hopes. After a moment she continued.

"So as I physically danced with whatever-his-name-was, mentally I was excavating riches off the coasts of Spain, exploring Southern America, smelling salty air and cheap alcohol on a pirate ship—daring, dauntless, unconquerable…"

Her eyes snapped open, blazing more intense than ever before. "Do you understand, Wendy?" she whispered fiercely, excitement teeming in her voice.

"I…I think so," Wendy stuttered, never witnessing her mother like this before.

"Good. I won't be around forever, but I need you to know this: I need you to know, as my daughter, all I care about is your happiness. Constrictions only strangle the weak, Wendy. They strangle the uncreative, the ones who give up in life, who admit defeat and plop down right where they sit. Constrictions strangle the dull, the unimaginative, the ignorant. And you, my girl, are none of those things. None. Follow your heart, darling, because it knows you best. I…" she stopped, searching for words. "I love your father, but sometimes I wish I lived my own life first."

Wendy frowned, and Mrs. Darling reached out her hand, looking her daughter directly in the eyes. "I never regretted marrying him, because you three—my wonderful children—have made my life an adventure. Better than any pirate ship. But you, _you,_ have the world at your fingertips, and life doesn't wait for you—to make up your mind if you want to live it or not. If you're happy," she sighed, tears welling over young eyes, "…then I'm happy."

Wendy glanced away a long moment, suppressing overbearing sobs, realizing these may be her mother's last words of wisdom. When she turned back around, her mother was fiddling with a worn clasp around her neck.

"Oh, let me…"

"No, no. I can do it," Mrs. Darling winced, pain slicing through her lungs. She smile feebly, removing a thin, silver locket from beneath her nightdress.

"This is for you. My mother gave this to me at twelve years old, and…it's yours now." And she dropped the necklace into her daughter's palm, curling both hands—mother and daughter—around the metallic bond.

"But mother, mother, I…" Wendy hesitated, at a loss of words. "I love you." And she hugged the frail young mother, smelling—perhaps for the last time—the drifting scents of mint and lavender.

"I think I might rest a while now, if that's alright, dear."

"Yes, certainly. I'll…I'll close the door on my way out."

"Good. And Wendy?" she added, eyes fluttering, lingering between dreams and reality.

"Yes?" she hesitated, drawing her attention back into the room, seemingly unable to leave.

Using all her last strength, her mother—her loving, sacrificing, ever beautiful mother—whispered, "I love you too."


	4. Night's Embrace

**A/N: I'm so so happy for the reviews and follows! Thank you so much! If you have any suggestions or comments, feel free to review or message me. I'd really love to hear what you guys think :)**

After kissing her brothers goodnight, Wendy settled into her bed, wishing for a goodnight kiss of her own. He drew the covers tight around her shoulders, grateful for night's embrace. Something about nightfall—the cloak of darkness, the cool breezes, freedom from the bustle of day—had always comforted her. As a young child, Wendy spent hours dreaming beneath dim-lit candles, retelling her mother's stories under her tongue. The characters came to life—dancing and chatting within the nursery walls—and Wendy sewed them together, wove them into a plotline. From there she added dashes of adventure, specks of romance until she held not merely a story, but a tapestry of heart, courage, and imagination. Admittedly, Wendy held very few friends in her seventeen years, but packed within the walls of her mind lay hundreds of tales, and thousands of adventures. Presumably, they were all she needed—that is, until she met Peter.

At twelve years old, Wendy found her first—really her only—love, the one and only Peter Pan. She'd read about love, told about love, even _dreamt_ about love, but never knew of love's utmost strength. With Peter, her heart stammered a million miles a minute. Her cheeks flushed. Her mind swam dizzily. She felt like flying—literally. She discovered love was nothing like fairy tales; no, it was so much more. But at twelve years old, she could not fathom the severity and depth of this love. After all, her first love could not be _true_ love, could it?

By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late. She had grown. Her delicate figure had lengthened into a 5'4" frame, her breasts had swollen, and her stubborn golden-brown curls had tamed into ringlets. Suitors casted glance after glance at her pretty face but were stopped short every time. She turned every single one down, for her stomach never fluttered—nor did her heart ever soar—like with Peter. And so, every night Wendy dreamed of his return. She knew the reality, she knew she was too old for him, but continued believing that one day he would return for her. And she would escape this world. Escape it all—the apathy of society, disdainful judgment…everything. And nightfall proved the perfect opportunity—in fact, the only opportunity—to reflect upon the day, yearn for the past, and dream of the future.

By eleven o'clock, the streets of London were still, mostly. A few drunken, muffled conversations drifted through the nursery's unlocked window, desperate cries of the city's less fortunate. Wendy listened, and Wendy knew how gritty the streets of London could be. Perhaps she was the only one, for the drunks could not remember and the sleepers did not care. Sometimes, in this aspect, Wendy felt terribly alone. Everyone seemed to look down upon her, solely because her feet still sprung the lively step of a child, and her eyes still gleamed with wonder. Not that she really minded; in her eyes, growing up meant growing ignorant.

She rolled over in bed, tucking her legs beneath her. _"He wants a response tomorrow,"_ she thought, fear and anticipation creeping inside her. Edging the blanket a little farther up, up to her neck, she let out a shiver. "_Tomorrow,_" she repeated, the word pounding into her mind. And haunting thoughts surrounded her, swiped at her with greasy paws, dirt and dreams gritty under the nails. Her heart quickened, prodded by an unseen nightmare, and sweat beaded on her forehead.

At the pinnacle of distress, Wendy flung off her blankets in desperation. She needed to breath; the room's heat stifled her. Half-trodding, half-running to the window, she flung it open without hesitation.

"Where are you? Where are you?" she cried, demanding the skies to listen. "I've waited—for _years_ I have waited—and I cannot wait anymore. Tomorrow I am accepting a suitor, engaged to be wed, and you don't give a damn. A damn!" The night air whipped her nightgown around the ankles. Tears leaked from her eyes, streaming steadily down her cheeks. "I've never loved anyone like you, and I know now that I never will. I love you, Peter Pan. Where are you?" And she fell to the window's edge, covering her face with her arms.

Suddenly, she sensed another presence. Looking up slowly, she broke into a tearful smile when a low timbre announced:

"I'm right here."


	5. A New Adventure

"Peter?" Wendy wondered, wiping away tears with her nightgown sleeve. Once the cloudiness had cleared, she gasped. "Peter, is that you? You look…"

"Different? Yeah. But so do you!" Peter grinned, his boyish charm obviously still intact.

She could scarcely believe it; in fact, without the witty response, she might have doubted his legitimacy.

His wiry figure had extended, heightened, until he cowered over Wendy—not dauntingly and intimidatingly, but rather in a protective way. She noted her pale, smooth feet compared to his rough, tan, worn ones; his bare-footedness held no surprise to her. Slowly, Wendy's eyes grazed upwards, acknowledging the green leaf-twined tunic taut around his body. Peter was indeed lanky, like John, yet more…full. Muscular. Capable.

She tilted her head upwards, at last analyzing his face. He was smiling, full lips framing slightly crooked teeth. A thin line of freckles trailed each cheekbone, no doubt a result of years in the sun. His blonde hair looked relatively similar as before, short and messy, only now a few wisps drooped naturally across his forehead. Finally, Wendy searched for his green eyes, deep as the jungle, inhaling sharply to find them boring straight into her own.

After a few moments of staggered breathing, Peter broke the silence. "Wow Wendy, you look…beautiful."

Wendy blushed, tracing her toes across the dusty floor shyly. "I could say the same, Peter Pan," she teased, raising her eyebrow.

He took a step closer, his nose grazing against hers. "You don't know how much I missed you."

She snapped back to reality, having forgotten his betrayal in his sudden arrival. Creeping slowly back, she felt the anger rise in her voice. "Then why didn't you visit? It's been five years, Peter."

"Yes, yes I know. I have a lot of explaining to do." He sauntered towards her.

"Stay away from me!" Wendy shrieked. "Or I'll…I'll…"

"You'll what?" Peter said doggedly, placing his hands on his hips.

"I'll hit you! I will Peter! I'm warning you!" But Peter only approached further, skimming her lips with his finger.

"Wendy wouldn't hurt a fly," he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She stared back at him, attempting to scowl; staying mad at Peter was a hopeless cause. "Fine. But you at least owe me an explanation." Her heart beat wildly beneath her nightgown.

"Okay, I'll explain everything. I promise." He grabbed Wendy's hand—gently of course—and led the way to her bed. Sitting quietly, so as not to wake John or Michael.

"About five years ago, we defeated Hook. Remember?" She nodded, lightly squeezing his palm; he continued. "Well, we—I mean me and the Lost Boys—think he's still alive." Involuntarily, Wendy gasped, scanning the emerald eyes to validate his words.

He clutched her hand tighter. "Yes. It's true. Ever since he disappeared, Neverland's been…wilting. Dying. He must be the cause; he's left Neverland."

"Left Neverland? How? Where is he?"

"Here. In the real world. Tink admitted he stole fairy dust from her. Flew away, I guess—that old Codfish!"

Wendy squinted, weaving together the bare explanations. "But…how does this—Hook's escape, I mean—affect Neverland?"

Peter huffed lightly, impatient as always. His eyes combed the nursery, seeking a way to explain. "It's like…Ah! I got it! It's like a spider web," he said, acknowledging a small gray spider crawling along the ceiling. "The spider keeps its home tidy. Alive. Without him, the web falls apart. Without him, the web is nothing."

He shifted his gaze onto Wendy's small, but swift, hand in his own. Despite the severity of the situation, Wendy smiled innocently as he traced slow circles across her palm.

"Key people on the island—Hook, Tiger Lilly, me," he added, winking at her, "—keep Neverland alive. Surely, we can leave for small amounts of time, but Hook's been gone for years now. The trees are even changing colors; they're nearly brown now. If I don't find him, I'll have to…grow up, Wendy!"

"But..you're already—"

"Don't. Don't say it. I had to."

Wendy had suspicions she caused his maturation, but, sensitive of his sensitivity, she decided to keep them to herself. "Because you've been out searching for Hook?" she suggested instead.

"Well, yeah. I figured growing up a little is better than growing up forever! No luck finding him though. Thought maybe he'd be in London."

"Oh." Maybe he didn't care for her after all. Maybe she'd hoped too much.

Peter glanced up quickly and startlingly, green fire blazing in his eyes. "And I…I couldn't leave you, Wendy. I haven't stopped thinking about you since we met. I need you, Wendy, I really do."

"Oh, Peter, growing up has been miserable! At least, without you it has," she admitted, tears watering her eyes.

He jumped up, hovering a few inches from the floor. "If you ever tell the Lost Boys I said that, I'll deny it."

"Don't worry, I would never," she smirked back.

Peter stilled when two distinct chimes rang throughout the sleepy city. "It's getting late, we better get going," he remarked, dragging her to the windowsill.

"To…where, exactly?"

"Neverland, of course! You'll help me find Hook, won't you?"

"What?" Wendy stammered, dropping his hand. How could she leave everything behind? John and Michael needed her; she'd fall behind in school; what would her mother say?

She smiled suddenly. "Yes, of course I will. I'll be just a moment."

Her mother may have missed her chance for adventure, but Wendy would never. Living Mrs. Darling's dream, Wendy promised to tell her everything when she arrived home.

Quickly, she found a small suitcase and, flinging open her dresser, tossed in a few dresses. A small hairbrush landed haphazardly inside, followed by a pair of John's breeches, a blue hair ribbon, undergarments, and a clean cream blouse. She was snapping the luggage buckles shut when a shining silver object caught her eye. Reaching forwards, she tenderly grasped her mother's locket, clasping it upon her neck—the intricate metal heart landing just above her own.

"Ready?" Peter asked.

"Just two more things." Wendy scrambled over to her desk and pulled out paper and a pen.

"_Be home soon,_" she wrote. "_Off to start my own adventure. Love, Wendy._" She left the note on Michael's bedside, certain the rambunctious youngster would awaken first.

"Ready," she offered, squeezing Peter's hand.

"Well, you wrote the note. What was the other thing you had to do?" he wondered aloud, his eyes cast downwards in confusion.

"Oh yes! I nearly forgot." And she planted a kiss tenderly on his lips—only this time, Tinkerbell wasn't around to pull her away.


End file.
